Happy Birthday Dear Stella
by CycloneT
Summary: They had a tradition, and who the hell did he think he was by forgetting it? Mac/Stella


TITLE: Happy Birthday Dear Stella  
AUTHOR: Cyclone  
RATING: T KEYWORDS: Mac/Stella  
SPOILERS: none  
SUMMARY: They had a tradition, and who the hell did he think he was by forgetting it?  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, don t sue.  
NOTES: Thanks to my beta Shane, who as usual was super fast and just brilliant.

XxX

Stella kicked the door shut, dropped her keys on the table and stomped over to the couch. If she'd had a cat she would have kicked it. Well, no, she wouldn't have. But the urge to kick something, _anything_, was strong. Instead, she flopped onto the couch and punched a pillow. It felt good, so she punched it again. She punched it for the dry cleaner that had lost her jacket, for the waitress who'd messed up her order, and she punched it especially hard for Mac. Twice. Because he was the real reason her day had sucked.

"Damnit," she said, and threw the offending pillow across the room. When she'd woken up that morning she hadn't imagined the day would end with her coming home and punching things. But that was exactly what had happened, because apparently not one single person on the planet either knew or cared that on this day, some thirty-odd years ago, she'd been born.

She didn't give in to moments of self-pity very often but she felt justified in the wallowing she was about to do. The fact that everyone had forgotten her birthday sucked, but it didn't bother her as much as one particular person forgetting. That was the real kicker. That was what had made her feel like kicking her non-existent cat. He was her best friend and he was supposed to remember her birthday. End of story.

They had a tradition, and who the hell did he think he was by forgetting it? By forgetting _her_? He was supposed to pretend he didn't know exactly how old she was, make a lame joke about her age and treat her to an extended lunch at her favourite diner. After lunch they'd take a walk through the park and he'd buy her an ice cream cone. They'd talk and laugh and there would be more predictable age jokes, and when she got back to her office she'd be met by an exquisitely wrapped gift on her desk. She never knew exactly when he put it there, but without fail, when they got back from lunch there would be something there. A new book by her favourite author. A bottle of bath oil. Godiva chocolates. _Something_. Today there had been nothing. No gifts, no lunch, no ice cream. Most importantly, there had been no jokes and no talking and no laughing, and that's what she missed more than anything.

Stella pulled herself up from the couch and walked into the kitchen. A few glasses of wine might dull the ache that she couldn't quite explain. She didn't know why it mattered so much that he forgot. She just knew that somehow, it did. And the hangover she'd no doubt suffer from tomorrow would be entirely his fault.

An hour later she was halfway into her third glass of wine when she was interrupted by a light rapping at her door. With her drink in hand, she walked over and looked through the peephole. Mac looked back at her.

"Go away," she called out wearily.

"I didn't forget."

She opened the door a crack. "Remembering at 11:15 doesn't really count."

"I didn't forget," he repeated. He waited for a few moments for her to respond. When she just stood there silently he asked, "Can I come in? Please, Stella?"

She shrugged as if it made no difference to her, moved out of the doorway and walked into the living room.

"Thank you," he said softly, closing the door behind him and following her inside.

"The first words out of your mouth better be '_I'm sorry'_, or else you can just turn around and walk back out," she snapped.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's not enough," she replied.

"I know."

"I expected better from you."

"I know."

"You hurt me today, Mac."

"I know."

She studied him, and could see that he really did know. She was still pissed at him, and she was still hurt, but she'd never been one to hold a grudge, and she didn't like the self-recrimination in his eyes. She sighed and took another sip of wine. "Don't do it again."

"I won't."

She motioned for him to sit down. "Drink?"

He sat beside her and shook his head. "No, I've already had a few on the way over here."

She raised her brow. "How did you get here?"

"Cab," was the short reply.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. "Stella, I really am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm just . . . a coward."

She looked at him carefully, and saw that he wasn't through beating himself up just yet. "That would be the last thing that could ever be attributed to you, Mac Taylor. Maybe the forgetfulness is a sign of early onset dementia."

He smiled ruefully. "Aren't the bad age jokes my department?"

"Yeah, well, you forgot my birthday, remember?"

"I didn't forget. I just didn't want to give you this," and he took a blue box out of his jacket pocket, "and have you reject it. Or misunderstand the intention behind it."

"Now why would you ever think that I'd reject a gift from you?"

"Because this is special. Important." He handed her the box and waited.

Stella opened it and peered inside. "Oh," was all she said.

"I've surprised you."

"Yes, you could say that."

"If I've misread things then I apologise," he said, mistaking her silence for rejection.

"No, Mac, you didn't. I'm just . . . you caught me off guard," she finished weakly. "It's beautiful, it really is. Thank you."

He took a deep breath. "I thought it was time we stopped dancing around . . . _us_ . . . but I couldn't think of any way to start the conversation. I figured this would at least get the ball rolling, and I'd know one way or the other."

"Know what?"

"If you felt the same way I did. The way I do," he amended.

"It was a good call. And the perfect choice," she said, glancing down at the box.

He looked as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "I am a detective," he joked lamely.

"A forgetful one," she hit back.

"I told you –"

"I know, I know. I guess I'm not sure how to start this conversation either."

Stella fingered the box that held the beautiful gold heart pendant and smiled softly. "This whole day did not pan out the way I expected when I woke up this morning," she admitted. "But I'm not unhappy with the way things have turned out."

"The day's not over yet."

She looked at him blankly and then comprehension dawned in her eyes as he leaned in towards her and cupped her face in his hands. She was surprised at how gentle his hands were, but then his lips were brushing against hers and she forgot all about his hands. There was just him and her and everything else ceased to exist.

Then he pulled back and she missed the warmth of him immediately. She needed a moment to gather her racing thoughts, so she said the first thing that popped into her mind. "Wow."

"That's a ringing endorsement, if ever I heard one," he laughed.

"You know me, Mac; I give credit when credit is due."

"I do know you, Stella. And I know that I still have to make amends for today. So you tell me – how can I make it up to you?"

"You could sing to me," she offered.

"Trust me," he said in mock horror, "you don't want that."

She laughed. "Okay, then you can get me a birthday cake. With candles."

"At 11:40 at night? Where am I going to get that?"

"You want redemption, Mac, then it can't be too easy. Bring me cake and we'll talk."

"Cake," he pondered. "Okay, I can do that." He rose from the couch, and then bent back down to kiss her again. It was still gentle, but it held the promise of much more. "Stay here," he ordered. "I'll be back."

Stella cocked her head to the side but said nothing until he reached the door. "Hey, Mac," she called out.

He turned around.

"If you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm going to bed. Alone. Which is not how I want my birthday to end, you understand?"

The slam of the door and quick footsteps echoing down the hall told her that he did.

End


End file.
